Russia&Canada: Moments
by mmmmmaple
Summary: A growing collection of Russia/Canada moments. Because of love. Rated M: it could get sexy (or violent) all up in here.
1. Untouchable

_I have a thing for Russia and Canada. And in my mind, there are so many little moments and scenes between them that aren't really a larger part of anything, but I need to write them anyway. So, each chapter of this story ought to be considered its own little story in the bigger context of Russia and Canada in a relationship._

_I'm kinda new to fanfiction, but from what I understand, this isn't against any rules (I took a quick look and saw things similar to this in the shape of character 'blogs' or 'Q&As') but then I decided, who cares about backlash, these are my stories, I do what I want. - cavalier wink - I'll update as I go along.  
_

_Also, I just happen to be procrastinating on much lengthier fics and I wanted to actually upload something. I promise not every write-up will be this stupidly long again. - twitch - I'm just really nervous about posting my writing.  
_

_Some of these will be happy, some sweet, some angsty, some very sexy and they will run the gamut of ratings, so I'll set it at M right off the bat._

_I don't own Hetalia. Or Canada. Or a football team. Or much of anything, really._

* * *

**Untouchable**

* * *

Ivan returns to find the smaller blonde nation watching Planet Earth with the most pleasing pink blush on his face. And it says something about the level of their trust that he doesn't even notice, so entranced is he with the stunning visuals on screen. Ivan glances at what he's watching and recognizes the broadleaf forests as easily as his own skin and he takes a deep breath, the ghost of an honest smile on his face.

If the russet sunset that glints off the golden waves - Russia's sunset on Russia's lover - isn't the most beautiful thing, he doesn't know what is. It isn't until Matthew turns to him and the room is suddenly too warm; heavy-lidded violet eyes and parted lips are wicked temptations.

"Where did - " he asks perfunctorily as he drops his briefcase without care. The way Matthew doesn't even blush at being caught makes his blood pump inexplicably hot, but Ivan does not allow himself to take another step because just watching the blonde pull at the sleeves of his overlarge Saskatchewan Roughriders zip-up makes his heart threaten to burst from his chest.

And it does.

Matthew goes from incubus to medic in seconds, and before Ivan knows what is happening, the blonde has whisked his heart off the floor and he can feel the warmth of water running over it. He handles it gently; Ivan can feel the even pressure as Matthew tenderly pats it dry. The blonde returns, a somewhat sheepish expression on his face, and he won't meet his lover's eyes as he slides the organ back in place, ignoring the irregular tear gaping from his shirt. Ivan captures Matthew's still-wet hand in his own and runs a thumb over his knuckles in wonderment, as always - his gentle lover doesn't bat a golden lash at a vital organ bursting free, but a simple touch can elicit the most delightful shiver.

Matthew burrows his face in his chest, leaving the Russian to plant a kiss on the crown of his head, which he does and inhales the sweet scent of the wheat-coloured waves. "I'm sorry," comes the quiet voice as the other hand fidgets with the rough edges of the hole in his shirt.

"I've had to repair many shirts since you have started to stay the weekends with me," Ivan murmurs as he wraps an arm against the blonde's waist and draws him even closer, not missing the way Matthew's pulse begins to speed.

"I meant about the... the..." his voice turns into breathy nothingness and the way that his lover won't look him in the eye bothers him, but the Russian is willing to be patient.

"It's - Francis gave it to me."

Ivan chuckles and the hair on Matthew's arms stiffens in excitement. "It's just... and the... beautiful." His voice is almost silent but his body is incredibly warm and Ivan watches the dust motes in a blazing trail of sun. "Why do you do this to me?"

Ivan looks down and Matthew looks up. He frowns a little, and it's unclear as to whether Matthew is squinting because he is having difficulty seeing or whether he is embarrassed. After some consideration, Ivan decides it might be a mixture of both and wills his arm to slip away from Matthew's waist to slide the glasses off his nose. A light blush rises as Ivan transfers the glasses to the side table and traces the blonde's jaw, coming to a stop on his chin as he runs a thumb across the swollen lips.

He wants to kiss, to bite, and to claim, but that can wait.

With each small gesture - a subtle pull on the small of his back, the slip from an affectionate smile to one hungry with desire - he watches Matthew practically writhe with self-consciousness. He awaits the reaction, and perhaps Ivan is being merciless, but he doesn't care. Finally, when his fingers are twisted in Matthew's hair and stroking lightly against his spine, the blonde finally breaks and Ivan reflexively hardens against him so his fingers can find purchase.

An imploring, moist gaze reflects Ivan's own desire, albeit better disguised, and he is consoled by the need in each of his lover's subconscious movements.

His voice is a whisper. "Why? You're so big, but it's m-" a pause as Matthew collects himself, and by this point, it's all Ivan can do to keep his breathing steady as he stares into the blown pupils.

" - more... than that. Oh." Ivan smiles curiously and patiently strokes the soft tresses until his lover is ready. Then, a whisper, "you already knew."

"How does it feel?" he asks with a nod.

"I want it," is the instant, nearly silent answer and Matthew stiffens against him as he chuckles. "If Alaska was still yours, I'd invade," he hisses but relents into the warmth of Ivan's chest. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

"Matvey," he says, voice low, but stops. He momentarily considers Matthew's plight, and rapidly dissolves into lust. The nation with the least amount of people for its size - his lover, his Canada - awaiting patiently for the only nation larger than himself, tempting himself with Russia's scenic landscapes...

"Ivan," the blonde starts, flushing. Ivan wants to silence him with a kiss, but Matthew's next words make his heart threaten to leap again. "_Touch me_."

* * *

_I was recently told that the Roughriders sell three times more official clothing than every other league in the CFL combined. So that made me giggle, and yeah, maybe Canada is known for his hockey but I've got Grey Cup 2013 in my blood right now._


	2. Unexpected Consequences

_Javier is Cuba (at least to me)._

* * *

**Unexpected Consequences**

* * *

"He's _not_ commu - "

Matthew speaks in hushed tones at the end of the hall and Ivan doesn't want to intrude, but at the same time, he does. So, he just happens to eavesdrop as he rearranges his scarf.

"Okay, I hear what you're saying - yes, well that's just Javier - okay, I'm really confused. Please, Al, slow down - who are you talking about? Okay. Please, for me. Yes."

In the silence that follows, Matthew's voice turns from confused to something that Ivan hasn't heard in years. It piques his interest and makes his head swim with dark desire. The fabric of his scarf slides through his fingers like an afterthought.

"I did see that," Matthew says crisply and cups his mouth to the phone. "There is no reason for you to be concerned. It was a friendly visit and nothing more."

Apparently the blonde has run out of patience because he cuts his brother off before a tirade can even begin. Ivan's eyebrows raise as he suddenly becomes aware that Ludwig is trying to exit the conference room; he moves just enough to let the Germanic nation pass. But as he leaves, Ludwig stops in his tracks to listen as well.

"_Don't push me, Alfred_."

With that, the tips of Matthew's ears turn pink, as if his body has alerted him to the sensation of being watched. Since there's no way for the two large nations to not look like they haven't been eavesdropping, Ludwig clears his throat and blushes while Ivan simply stares at Matthew with a curious smile.

The sweet mauve gaze beckons the Russian and the German like moths to a flame. Matthew pushes his glasses up and starts to speak in a normal tone of voice (still so soft) but there is something about his stance that is positively defiant.

If it were Alfred, Ivan would take it as a challenge. Hell, if it were almost anyone, Ivan would take that body language as a challenge.

But it is _Matthew_.

And there is coldness in his eyes.

_"I don't hate anyone," the young soldier says. His helmet shines - it always shines, even when he's at his skinniest, dirtiest, and most despairing. He looks like he doesn't want to be at war, just like most soldiers. Ivan despises being unable to discern his motives. He has nothing to gain and everything to lose. A perfect mix of grimness and sweet sadness, a dominion who hardly has a name. No one knows him and he isn't interested in conquest._

_He's not even worth his time, but Ivan wants to break him, personally, allies be damned._

_How does this inexperienced brat, hardly a battle or two under his belt, waltz into war and drive home the stake of fear? This boy? He doesn't see it._

_Not until the soft gaze stares at him, stares through him. And Ivan feels exposed and vulnerable, so he smiles and looms over the boy in his most intimidating way._

_There's no fight in his eyes, but the soldier doesn't shrink in fear, either. He is just there, existing, so very far away from home. "I don't hate anyone," he repeats in a voice like a whisper even as Ivan grabs his shoulders._

_There's no resistance and the body frighteningly solid and balanced and Ivan releases him after a lengthy, unnerving stare._

_"You don't have a place here," he says dismissively._

_"And you don't have the right." The words are not angry, spiteful, or even slightly insolent; they are the tired, honest truth of this boy's perspective and suddenly Ivan feels exhausted._

_"You know nothing."_

_"Maybe," comes the soft admission. "And I can't judge you. You just don't have the right."_

_Years later, his fists will clench at his sides when he hears of the casualties on Juno beach and for some reason, his heart will beat fast when he learns that despite the incredible death toll and the limited numbers, Canadian forces have pushed further into occupied France than anyone else._

"That's right, Al, just a friendly visit. If you come over tomorrow morning, I'll make you pancakes," Matthew soothes and Ivan suddenly understands where the tired, dark circles have come from; Alfred is very persistent when it comes to Cuba.

Their eyes still locked, Matthew smiles. "No, no, I'm sure. I appreciate the offer, but you don't have to," then his gaze doesn't harden - it _freezes. _ "I don't think Russia will be sailing into my harbours any time soon. But you're right. A warship is a_ war_ ship, and you know how I hate fighting."

Matthew approaches and Ivan can feel the trail of his touch against his arm; all whilst the blonde looks up at Ludwig apologetically as he angles himself to get past unobtrusively.

"Yeah. I love you, bye," he says and Ivan can't help the jealous twinge. Part of him wants to prod at Matthew's fatigue, just enough to sting, but a larger and unfamiliar part of him wants to console the boy.

A dreamy whisper of _all fighting accomplishes is ruin_ reaches his ears as, with a sweet and secret smile, Matthew rounds the corner and is gone. Both broad-shouldered nations straighten themselves and show no sign of being affected, but a strange glint shines in the bright blue eyes as Ludwig faces Ivan.

"Good luck with that one," he says before briskly turning on his heel.

* * *

Because of the Russian warship that floated in on a friendly visit to Cuba on August, 2013. And because of a rare display of less-than passive-aggression; that's about as close to_ if you declare war on me or my friends, I'll fuck up your shit even if I love you_ as he gets. Also because America is so not down with Cuba at all and has been persistently trying to get Canada to call 'friends off'. And because America will always kind of not-so-secretly have a bone to pick with communism.

No one said that being lovers (with Russia OR with Canada) was an easy business.

I know I'm updating rather quickly, but when I looked at my stats - so _neato_! - I saw all the views and my head spun with a rush of tingly flutters.


	3. Old Fears

**Old Fears**

* * *

Matthew claws at the cocoon of silken sheets like an animal, gasping for breath, tears in his eyes, panicked. It is of little wonder that the broad form shifts beside him with a sleepy, questioning rumble of something in Russian; but his mind isn't able to translate because his heart is pounding painfully in his chest and he can't breathe.

He can't breathe.

So he shakes, legs half-flung off the side of the bed, trying to stifle his gasps, trying to quell the terror. Because it's just sleep, it's just a dream and _I could use a cigarette, please Ivan, don't turn on the light, go back to sleep, please_.

But he can't say these things so he just wills the choking noises to slow as he feels a weight shift in the bed. Opening his mouth to say _I'm fine, I'm sorry, don't worry_, a strangled half-sob and half-gurgle escapes as a large, warm hand slides across his back with remarkable tenderness.

"I'll get some water." Ivan's voice is thick from sleep. At any other time, Matthew would find it alluring but now he simply nods, gasps, wills, and waits.

By the time his lover has returned, the blonde's fingers have unclenched and his breath has somewhat returned. A cool glass slides into his hands and he becomes vaguely aware of the outlines of two of the four solid posters that hold up the bed. Ivan drops beside him and their naked hips and thighs touch.

The coolness of the water helps to open up his throat just enough for him to roughly thank his lover.

Ivan hums appreciatively, but there is no escaping the concern in his voice when he speaks. "Something is troubling little Matvey," he murmurs and cards a hand tentatively through Matthew's hair, at which the blonde shivers and throws his arms around the warm expanse of Ivan's firm back and chest. He cannot bring himself to answer, but the strong and steady heartbeat pressed to his calms him enough that he can shake his head. "It's in the past, da?"

Matthew says nothing. Ivan ponderously strokes his hair and Matthew wishes there was a little more moonlight, enough to see the comfort on the smiling face, but the room is full of darkness; so he contents himself with the feel of Ivan's skin, the hint of musk, the reassuringly smoothness of the scars that line his body.

"You were buried," he states lightly. Almost as though he can feel the sudden heat in Matthew's cheeks, Ivan continues, "it was awful."

"It was," the blonde says offhandedly and feels not at all ashamed at the adrenaline of fear fusing with the adrenaline of lust as he plays his fingers delicately across Ivan's chest. If his lover feels it, he does not respond in kind, and Matthew can practically see the somber crease in his brow.

"I am being serious now," and the frown is evident in the tone, "it is not every night a nation startles me awake in my own bed."

"I hope not." He traces delicate swirls as his eyes adjust further to the dimness of the room.

Ivan's chuckle is as light as it is dangerous, a warning; Matthew can't help but imagine how easy it would be to bend into the dip between Ivan's legs and deftly swallow him to the base. "I know what you are thinking, Matvey." The tone is deceptively playful.

"Ah oui?" Matthew purrs hazily as he kisses the length of a toned bicep.

"Not tonight, solnyshko. Not like this." And with that, Ivan easily pulls away from Matthew's grasp and rolls back into bed. With an indignant pout and nerves still afire, the blonde follows suit and curls into a tight ball, pulling the covers close.

Matthew wills his breathing to be quiet and easy. His heart rate falls and his eyes flutter shut as he settles in and feels sleep drawing near. Then, there is a quick shift; suddenly, Matthew is enclosed by heavy and familiar arms. He buries his face into the pillow as Ivan draws him backwards, against his hard body - hard everywhere - and Matthew smiles.

"You are okay to sleep now?" Breath comes hot and thrilling against the back of his neck as Ivan kneads the blonde's flesh gently.

"Oui," he breathes against the lump in his own throat. It would be so easy to simply slide back and brush between Ivan's thighs, to ever-so-subtly shift his weight down and be acknowledged with a surprised, needing groan.

"Matvey," and the voice is low, a growl, a guarantee, "did I not tell you that I know your thoughts?"

Matthew burrows his head against the pillow and tenses against the painfully seductive huskiness of his lover's voice, of his closeness, of his existence.

"They are mine, too." Then, a whisper against his neck, "when the morning chases away your fear, _then_ you can wake me on your knees. _Then_ I will fold you over the bed and have you crying out my name, writhing under my hands - flushed and senseless." Matthew moans instinctively and Ivan silences him by pressing a kiss behind his ear. "But for now, sleep."

* * *

_To me, Matthew is a very closed-off person, so the fact that he just didn't straight up leave is kind of a big deal. I wanted to write a little thing about the intimacies of this relationship, of trust. I don't think the fear of being buried alive is actually related to having been buried alive. It's just a fear.  
_

_Solnyshka/ko = little sunshine  
_


	4. Trust and Release

_This is sex, so if you don't like, there you go.  
_

* * *

**Trust and Release**

* * *

There is a creak in the floorboards.

Adrenaline is a thick drug swimming through his veins. Ivan snaps up immediately and has the intruder pinned against the wall.

He blinks and removes his arm from across Matthew's throat.

"It's so early for Matvey to visit me," he teases gently and lightly traces the dip of Matthew's spine, eliciting the smallest shiver that translates into a coiling in his own groin.

Something is wrong; there's too much resistance in his muscles, too forced a smile on his face, too little sparkle in his eyes. Ivan releases him, sliding his hands down the coolness of Matthew's arms and pulls the unresisting body against his own. Matthew sighs deeply against his chest.

"May I use your gym?" he asks quietly against Ivan's throat.

"Da."

Matthew smiles and it is small but filled with genuine appreciation. Casually folding the waistband of his sweatpants, he shrugs off hoodie. Ivan watches the lithe muscles flex and makes no move to restart his training, opting to watch instead.

The blonde has already warmed up, evidenced by the light sheen on the skin that peeks through his undershirt. He doesn't even pause to remove his glasses and with a most serene expression, he sends the punching bag flying across the room with a graceful strike from his forearm. Ivan watches with a smile as his lover hits it repeatedly only to finally collapse on his knees.

"It's not working." The defeat on his face is as infuriating as it is painful.

Ivan strides the length of the room and pulls his lover roughly to standing. "Matvey, what is wrong?"

"Nothing works," he offers uselessly. His eyes are a vague swirl of purple and his face is expressionless; Ivan is torn between giving him a good smack or a good kiss.

So he does both.

His hand tinges the creamy skin pink and he presses his lips against Matthew's cheek as if the act will soothe the pain. He pulls away to gauge the effect and finds pink lips parted invitingly and violet eyes twinkling with life.

"_Ivan_," Matthew breathes, "_again_."

He takes a step back as his mind echoes a danger warning. Matthew follows and plants his hands on Ivan's chest; the friction of his warm palms and the fabric against his skin dulls the warning sensation.

"Matvey, that is not a good idea." He shakes his head, but he can't ignore the nearly imperceptible sound of Matthew's breath and he hesitantly curls an arm around his lover's waist. "I have no wish to harm you."

"_Please_," he asks and there's no denying the thrill of the word and the heavy-lidded eyes that beg him. "Will you let me be selfish?"

Delicate fingers that make slow circles on his chest provoke a low growl. Matthew smiles something more than a smile and Ivan grasps it all in a heartbeat. He pushes his lover to the ground, cushioned only by the thin mats of his gym, and Matthew falls hard. Ivan takes a deep breath and observes him critically (wishing that they were whispering against one another's skin and pressing kisses) and feels a different sort of desire rise.

The creamy pink of his skin and the tousled wheat waves are just too much; Ivan descends upon the unresisting body with a force that both delights and concerns him.

His strong hands guide the flimsy fabric of Matthew's shirt up and off over his head and he is met with the lightly-muscled torso that he sees (tensed and gleaming) in his dreams. And as he pushes down the yielding trousers, demanding long and lean legs wrap around him.

Without a word, Ivan collects Matthew's wrists in one hand and pushes them up over his head and the blonde blinks heavily and whispers "_please_."

His jaw set in a firm line, Ivan looks down at Matthew's elegant throat and his gaze trails down his collar bone and settles on his heaving chest. His lover brims with a primal, dangerous kind of need, so Ivan makes a quick decision and pushes him along the floor. The blonde practically trembles with impatience as Ivan pushes down his own pants and boxers; before he even has a good look at Matthew's face, his erection is swallowed in a perfectly slick, hot mouth.

Matthew moans and the vibration brings him back to reality. Ivan tightens his hold on Matthew's wrists and drags him away, sliding the malleable body across the floor as he stands and pulls the dazed blonde up with him. He grasps Matthew by the waist and pushes him the few short feet to the wall, then swiftly presses him against it and hefts him up. His lover's legs surround his thighs and hips with desperate immediacy, as if that were their sole purpose.

Ivan can't help but scan for any sign of reluctance as he releases Matthew's wrists; within seconds, slender fingers are embedded in his bicep and around his back in a painful but a most sensual pressure. Ivan grits his teeth and aligns himself, and forces the part of his mind that wishes they were in a bed to be silent. Because Matthew's heart is racing as he issues soft whimpers of need, his body hot with desire, and Ivan is afraid that the precious blonde isn't the only one who wants to be selfish.

Ivan leans forward, hovering over Matthew's heart-shaped face and confusion passes through the the clouded mauve eyes; because his hands are otherwise occupied, he catches the long curl in his teeth and pulls.

And he pulls _hard_, right as he drives into his lover.

It doesn't feel great, not at first, because Matthew isn't ready and the tightness is overwhelming but Ivan doesn't stop; he pulls out just enough to slam back in and this time it's a softer, smoother entry and Matthew gasps. Ivan bites back his own groan as he withdraws, leaving no time for adjustment, and as he stares into thoroughly dilated pupils, he thrusts in and Matthew cries out.

Legs tighten impossibly around him as Matthew throws his head back against the wall, panting for breath. Ivan wants to kiss along the curve of his jaw, against his throat, but that's not what Matthew needs right now, so he forces his attention back to the silky smoothness that encases him and proceeds to ravage his lover's yielding body.

"Ivan," Matthew gasps, "Ivan - Ivan - _ah_ -" his eyes fly open, "_right - oh, please - Ivan, ha-harder - "_

He obliges.

And Matthew slides taut fingers along Ivan's spine and up to his neck, clenching firmly as he looks through heavily-lidded violet eyes, voice failing.

"_I-I'm coming - _"

and he can only watch as the flushed face falls back, mouth open, with a delirious moan on his lips as warmth coats their stomachs. The very sight and the _feeling_ of Matthew is enough to make him reach his climax in a final few concentrated movements.

Ivan pulls out quickly and guides Matthew as he slides bonelessly down the wall, coated in both of their emissions and in their sweat. Ivan steadies them both against the tremors of the aftershocks. Matthew's sheepish look of thanks undoes him and he takes the angelic face in his hand.

The kiss is tender, breathless, and gentle - everything he had wanted to be, and Ivan hopes he is conveying that, he hopes that Matthew understands -

"I'm so sorry," Matthew whispers against his lips. Ivan draws him close and despite their exertion, the golden waves still smell as sweet as they always do. He smiles.

"It is okay, Matvey."

At his own name, Matthew's knees buckle. "I promise," he murmurs into Ivan's throat, planting a lazy trail of kisses. "I _promise_ next time will be better. Let me make it up to you?"

"_Da_,_ dorogoy_, that is an excellent suggestion."

* * *

_Dorogoy = sweetie, beloved, my dear, etc._


	5. Sugar

**Sugar  
**

* * *

"_Privet_?"

"Russia - _man _- Russia? Hello?"

Ivan pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. "America. This is important, da?"

A slight crunch crackles through the phone. "_Oh shit_, _that's my favourite helicopter you little - fuck_ - _not the propellers -_ " a hissing static, then the voice returns to normal, if incredibly strained. "Russia, get your ass over here right now."

"Alfred," Ivan hums and cradles the receiver against the pillow as he stretches his arms. "It is four in the morning in Moscow. You are big boy, yes? You can handle your own problems, I am sure."

A loud exhale and a far-off exuberant screech of delight occur simultaneously.

Ivan smiles and stretches against the sheets lazily.

He can all but see Alfred's calm fizzling away. It's absolutely delightful.

"_You know what? Fine! Fine! You wanna be like that? Just wait til I get off the phone and then - _" then Alfred's voice returns in a low growl, "Ivan, I swear by Batman that if you don't get here in the next five minutes I will nuke you. I will nuke you so hard. I will nuke like you've never been nuked before."

"That is very interesting news, comrade. Thank you for the advanced notice. I will return to my sleep now, yes? When can I expect the missiles?"

"God, Ivan, for the love of freedom fries - "

"Okay, goodnight now!"

"Ivan!" Alfred shrieks and the Russian reluctantly pulls the receiver back to his head. "Ivan? Are you there? Damn - he's all over my living room and he's trashed like every console I own and he's practically fucking digging through my sports stuff and he's breaking everything! He's breaking things! He's breaking my my stuff and I tried to call Arthur but he didn't answer and Francis just laughed and Lars didn't pick up and - I swear, if you've hung up - I can't s_top_ him! He keeps disappearing and reappearing and I will _kill_ Cuba for this! He just dumped him on my doorstep!"

Ivan warily tosses the covers off and comes slowly to standing, mauve eyes narrowed dangerously at the carpet on the floor. "Of whom are you speaking?"

"_Mattie!_ Matthew-fucking-Williams! He's looting my trophy cabinet!"

Ivan is torn; to laugh or to punch Alfred? He smiles and slips on a pair of pants.

"Matvey? I find this hard to believe?"

As he stealthily pulls one arm through a comfortable turtleneck and juggles the receiver, Alfred almost melts down. "Yes, _Mattie_ - you know, my brother? Your - your - _ya know _- your, he's your - "

"He's my what?" Ivan chirps and can practically hear Alfred's brain sizzle.

What a beautiful start to the day.

"You know what? Fuck it! I don't need _your _advice, since you can't even admit you and Mattie are - _put those DOWN, Matthew!_"

Ivan could swear he heard the faintest scream of "_Victory!_" from the other end. He slips the comfortable shirt on and places the receiver quietly on the bed. Quickly pulling on his scarf and socks (in that order), Ivan heads to the door and takes a grounding breath. He locks up and wills himself to somewhere he would much rather avoid: Alfred's house.

But when he appears seconds later, the sickening nausea of Big Country travel is nothing compared to the joy of seeing Alfred, pink-faced and furious, through the window.

He knocks politely and lets himself in.

Matthew is nowhere to be seen.

Alfred glares.

"Come and get your boyfriend," the American says and the eyes the typically twinkling eyes are stormy and dark. Ivan smiles and tilts his head.

"Matvey, are you here?"

"Of course he's fucking _here. _Can't you see the damage he's done?"

Ivan _can_ see the extensive damage. "Oh, I thought this was typical?"

Alfred glares and opens his mouth but the bickering is stopped by Matthew, beaming with exhilaration, glowing and giddy, as he practically twirls into the room. He shimmers around the edges but becomes whole as he gapes at Ivan.

"Hello Matvey," he purrs and Matthew is in his arms in seconds.

"I just - I don't even. Can you not?" Alfred cringes and smacks his forehead as Matthew casts Ivan a dazzling smile and plants a big kiss on his throat.

"Juice?" Ivan asks and Matthew flushes further, looks away, his glasses fogging with the warmth of his breath.

"And cake," the blonde breathes reluctantly like a scolded child.

"And ice cream?" Ivan asks playfully, drawing the impossibly hot body to himself as Matthew snuggles close. He glances at Alfred through snowy lashes. "Any more phone calls at four in the morning will have most disastrous consequences."

"_There was so much ice cream_," is the defeated whisper against his collar bone.

Alfred just glares, hands on his hips, defiant. "I can't believe he calmed down for you."

"And I find it difficult to believe that you called me," Ivan returns with a smile as he strokes Matthew's arm and feels the wild pulse hammer against the creamy skin.

Alfred looks positively livid, and, amusingly, is somewhat reminiscent of Arthur. But the blue-eyed twin's next words are dangerously soft and practically stop the Russian's heart for a moment.

"He says your name in his sleep."

There is a long pause, and Matthew squirms contentedly in Ivan's arms.

"We will be going now."

"Yeah." Alfred's eyes lower as he looks at his brother and says quietly, "take care of yourself, you crazy little bastard."

He can hear Matthew's whisper perfectly well. "_I didn't mean to make him jealous_."

Ivan shakes his head minutely and feels the tensed muscles unwind in his hands. Pulling the door closed behind them, he allows himself a small, tired smile.

"_I just wanted to break his hockey sticks._"

* * *

_I haven't been meaning to update so quickly, but I had a bad day and wanted to laugh and I'm so sorry, Internet. - whispers - so sorry..._

_You know how one glass of juice turns into four, which turns into a few slices of cake, which turns into a pint of ice cream..._

_Privet = hello_


	6. but really, I swear we work, too

_Thank you to my first reviewer. You made my heart sing, so I dedicate this ridiculous little thing to you, Miro. :) Enjoy._

* * *

**but really, I swear we work, too**

* * *

There is something in the way that Matthew pulls on his slippers that is just a little... hesitant, maybe? And Ivan knows for a fact that he hardly ever spends more than twenty minutes in the shower, unlike today, the sinful little thing.

He takes even longer than usual taunting his miniscule polar bear with fish until the white creature rips into a semi-frozen char and entrails mar the kitchen floor.

"Oh no." Matthew shoots a very long and pronounced glare at the clock above the entryway. Ivan gives him a curious look over the brim of his newspaper. "Looks like I'm going to have to clean up."

The messy bear ignores him, Ivan's eyebrows raise, and Matthew heaves an exaggerated sigh.

"I will probably miss my flight for this," he says loudly as he positively drags his feet to retrieve some paper towel from under the sink.

Ivan collapses the paper onto the solid oaken table. Honestly, he has hardly read more than a single line (over and over again) of the sports section since Matthew had inched his way into the kitchen because there was something in the way his little lover rubs sleep out of his eyes, or maybe it was the golden halo of hair illuminated by the light from the window, or perhaps the breathy little noises he makes as he raises his arms to stretch and there is just the slightest hint of a lightly-tanned shoulder as the overlarge nightshirt slides down his arm, or...

He blinks to dispel the thoughts. Matthew is enchanting and everyone knows it, including, if the glint in his eye is any indication, Matthew himself.

Suddenly, the fair-haired late-morning angel leans across the table and captures Ivan's lips in a kiss, trailing a hand along his cheek.

"Matvey," Ivan asks hoarsely and doesn't bother to clear his throat as he draws away when the nagging feeling finally makes sense, "isn't your meeting today?"

Matthew draws back sharply with misleading wide eyes and a soft, startled gasp on his lips. He looks like an injured puppy.

Kumajiro finishes the fish with a particularly outrageous slurp.

Ivan buries his sudden smile in a cup of coffee because he _knows_.

And when Matthew arrives home at an obscene hour the next evening, Ivan merely looks up from his knitting and takes a small sip of vodka as he looks his lover over.

The first thing he notices is the smell; alcohol and smoke practically exude from Matthew's pores and he seems to have forgotten that he has a champagne flute tucked into his trouser pocket. A pair of unfamiliar and expensive sunglasses are pushed down his nose, his regular glasses probably lost somewhere in the recesseses of a somewhat more familar black jacket. One of his shoes is undone and on the whole, the rumpled Canadian is probably the cutest thing Ivan has ever seen.

Matthew's face is flushed and he seems short of breath as he tries ever so hard to shut the door soundlessly, but the rustling of a heavy set of bright beads around his neck negates his best efforts. He stubs his toe and hisses a stream of French curses that are more colourful than Tchad's necklace.

"Good evening, _solnyshko_," Ivan hums dreamily from next to the fireplace as Matthew blearily whips around, only to stumbles and place a hand on the wall. He doesn't even try to make the motion look like it was intentional.

"_Bonsoir_, oh this will get some time to get used to again. Every time," Matthew says with a dopey grin and a vague wave of his hand, "e_very time_."

"So," Ivan says without rising and doesn't bother to hide his smile this time, "you had fun?"

"Uh," Matthew stammers and faces a moment of panic before he takes in his own disheveled appearance and just gives up. He kicks off his shoes with a modicum of success and stumbles over them to collapse against Ivan's knees.

His eyes glow in the dim lighting and warm Ivan's heart.

"I think I might have Estonia's glasses," he admits quietly, his cheeks a healthy pink.

"Those are Luxembourg's sunglasses," Ivan gently corrects before he fingers the jacket in his hands and adds, "and this is Greece's jacket, is it not?"

Matthew relaxes and sways with drunken obliviousness and just nods with a quiet _mhm_.

Ivan lets the knitting rest in his lap and looks at the half-moon smile on Matthew's swollen lips and runs his hand through the tangle of curls.

Tomorrow, Matthew will be frantic with apology for coming in like that. He will be embarrassed and bashful and say _that's why I didn't want to go_.

But for now, Ivan looks past the thick, soft lashes and he smiles. He runs a thumb across Matthew's bottom lip and the limpid look he receives as pearly teeth attempt to belatedly catch the retreating digit is enough to melt and harden him in all the right places.

Matthew runs a hot palm with dangerously misleading sobriety against Ivan's inner thigh and he has to bite back a moan as the blonde struggles out of Greece's jacket, out of the necklace, out of his own undershirt. Bare-chested and completely undemanding, Matthew shifts onto his knees and doesn't seem to be able to divert his gaze from the bulge in Ivan's pyjama pants.

But Ivan catches his chin and demands his attention, despite Matthew's shivers at the touch and there is no stopping his delightfully wandering hands.

"All we did was play cards and then eat a lot of food and drink cocoa and dance like crazy," Matthew admits.

And who is he to deny the insistent Canadian? As Matthew works his fingers deftly under Ivan's waistband, the Russian murmurs in a deep rumble, "La Francophonie should meet more often."

* * *

_Bonus_

_and in the post-coital bliss that ensues on Matthew's guest bed because they didn't even make it to his bedroom, Ivan offers silent thanks for the French language as he fondles the curve of his sleeping lover's arm._


	7. And, oh, does he smoulder

_In An Awkward Proposal, Denmark has some issues with Russia, so I'm hesitant to post it for fear of sounding repetative. (But I can just see Russia ever so passively asking this at the break during an Arctic Council meeting, so post it I shall.) Unfluffy.  
_

* * *

**And, oh, does he smoulder.  
**

* * *

"_How could you_?"

Ivan anticipates the door about to be slammed in his face, so he easily rests his elbow against it and smiles down at his smouldering lover.

And, oh, does he smoulder. The air seems to distort around him and the dark aura makes Ivan giggle quietly; Matthew is so cute when he is enraged.

"Very easily, I think."

"You're such a..." his cheeks are crimson and his eyes brim with resentment as he fumbles with the words. "Such a... You _knew_ what would happen!"

Ivan smiles and nods. Matthew is bruising his wrist, but he doesn't mind; in fact, it is thrilling entertainment to feel the Canadian speaking louder with his body than with his words. It is a rare treat to see him aggravated: aggravated like _this_.

"_Bastard_," Matthew finally hisses.

"Oh," Ivan feigns a pout as sharp fingers bruise his wrist, "but you are not playing fair."

"_No_?" Realizing how loudly he has spoken, Matthew casts his eyes to the ground. "No, _you_ don't play fair. You never play fair. I shouldn't be surprised."

"But, somehow, you are?" Ivan teases and wraps his larger hand over Matthew's own wrist, earning him a reproachful glare.

"I think Mathias was more surprised, actually," he responds tartly.

"What? What did I do?"

"What did you..." the tempestuous eyes widen dramatically only to narrow just as quickly. "You had to bring it up, eh? You just can't leave it alone? You... Ivan. You're such a bastard."

Ivan looms over Matthew and he takes his arm off the door to let it swing softly shut behind them. Covering a pair of hot hands with his own, he watches as a trace of venom passes across Matthew's face; Ivan is good at picking out weakness in others, and it feels good - _oh_, it does feel good - to look at his lover and know that he has created a ripple in that smooth self-control.

They stand at a silent impasse, hands wrapped together. Ivan keeps strict control over his breath; watching each angry rise and fall of Matthew's chest under his dark suit jacket makes him more perceptive of his own heightened senses.

There has been a thorn in his side for far too long. Ivan finds Matthew's often-atypical methods of dealing with other nations either amusing or wildly perplexing, but this... this has gone on long enough.

It had only taken a single sentence (_And how is Hans Island?")_ for the ocean-eyed Dane to smirk, to approach Matthew - not just Canada, no, his Matvey - and sling one damnable arm so easily across his shoulders.

_"Better than ever."_

And Matthew had smiled. He had _smiled_.

Ivan looks past the thicket of amber lashes, steering clear of the disarming irises, to the corners of his eyes; they had crinkled so beautifully, so happily at Mathias's touch.

_"It-it's fine," Matthew stammers, a bashful smile tugging at his lips._

Ivan fights the instinctive urge to crush his fists, and, as if he can read Ivan's mind, Matthew breaks away. Light falls from gauzy curtains, casting strange shadows on his cheeks, making him look even paler and sterner. Matthew grimaces and tugs at the knot of his tie.

"Get out." Voice quiet again, he turns away and adds, "and leave my card key on the table".

Ivan watches the tired slump in Matthew's shoulders, the way he flings his jacket onto the bed with disinterest, and how he runs his hand through his hair distractedly.

He frowns, no longer able to recall what it was that he had hoped to accomplish.


End file.
